21 Great American Factory Tours You Can Take Right Now

There's probably no escaping taking the kids to an amusement park this summer—sweltering in long lines and paying for overpriced junk food. But when that torment is over, take them to a different kind of theme park, one you'll both enjoy: an American factory. You'll see how baseball gloves are made. Or how they print the posters for your favorite concert. Or how a guy at Harley-Davidson takes every bike up to 77 mph on what looks a lot like an automotive treadmill. Sometimes you'll even get candy. And unlike at Six Flags, admission is often free.

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1. Hatch Show Print

Nashville, Tennessee: 75 minutes; $15 (adults), $10 (ages 6 to 12)

Nashville's recent "it city" status has our skyline so dotted with cranes that longtime residents have started calling it Little Dubai. I worry that the town where my ten-year-old daughter, Margot, was born is becoming unrecognizable to her. So I decided a tour of the Hatch Show Print letterpress was in order.

"What's a letterpress?" Margot asked.

"They make music posters," I said. She got excited.

"Think they have any of Taylor Swift?" she asked.

"Maybe," I said, explaining that they've been in business since 1879, and have worked with just about every musician you can think of—from Elvis Presley to Elvis Costello.

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"Who's Elvis Costello?" Margot asked.

The production process hasn't changed much in over a century. Some of the letter blocks—exactly 0.918 inches high, a standard established in 1886 by the United States Type Founders' Association—are the original end-cut maple versions. This isn't Photoshop. There is no erasing. If even the smallest amount of grit builds up beneath an individual block, it must be sanded by hand so that it prints evenly. The rollers have to be reinked every four prints—each one slightly more faded than the last. These subtle inconsistencies are what make Hatch Show Print posters so special: No two look exactly alike.

The craftsmanship wowed my daughter—just like it had wowed me on my first visit, not long after I moved to Nashville two decades ago. But her favorite part was the end, when we got to browse through an inventory of photo plates and posters dating back to the shop's very first print run. I marveled at the photo plate for Led Zeppelin's first Nashville appearance in 1970. Then I glanced over and spotted Margot. She had the very same grin on her face. She was looking at a poster from Taylor Swift's "Speak Now" tour. —Adam Ross

2. The U.S. Mint

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (Also Denver, Colorado): 45 minutes; free

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From a 40-foot observation deck you'll see coins—tens of millions each day—sliced from metal coils that weigh 6,000 pounds and stretch five football fields. Inspectors use magnifying glasses to check the quality. Just one flaw in one coin and the entire batch is destroyed and recycled.

3. John Deere

Tours take place on a tram pulled by—what else?—a John Deere tractor. Huge robotic arms spray each vehicle in signature green and yellow. But the logo is still applied by hand.

4. Airstream

Jackson Center, Ohio: One to two hours; free

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Each of the iconic travel trailers has thousands of rivets holding together huge sheets of aircraft-grade aluminum. And every one of those rivets is drilled in by hand. Once finished, the campers go into the rain-test booth, where they're pounded by hurricane-strength rain for 20-minute cycles.

5. Bourbon Barrel Foods

Louisville, Kentucky: 25 minutes; free

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The nation's only soy sauce microbrewer—yes, soy sauce microbrewer—uses repurposed bourbon barrels and limestone-filtered Kentucky spring water to create a uniquely smoky-sweet condiment. FDA restrictions keep you from the factory floor, but you can still watch through glass as workers cook soybeans, roast grain, and press mash with six tons of force.

6. Woolrich

Woolrich, Pennsylvania: One hour; free

Woolrich has been churning out fabric since 1830, including blankets for Civil War soldiers. And for the factory's 60-odd employees, working with raw wool—a single blanket takes roughly four pounds—is its own kind of battle. A variety of heirloom machines dye, comb, spin, wind, warp, weave, wash, and roll the material before it can be turned into something you'd cozy up with on the couch.

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7. Coors Brewing Company

Golden, Colorado: 30 minutes; free

What kind of dad takes his five-year-old son on a brewery tour? A cool one, I thought, boarding the shuttle bus to the Coors plant in Golden, Colorado—the largest single-site brewery in the world, capable of turning out 13 million barrels of beer annually. To me, it was just another father–son outing—a chance to see something new and learn something interesting. Like the zoo, but with the freshest free beer imaginable. Little did I suspect my boy would end up scarred for life.

In and of itself, the self-guided tour is utterly wholesome, an experience as pure as the vaunted Rocky Mountain spring water that prompted Adolph Coors to set up shop in Golden back in 1873. Exhibits explain ingredients, malting, mashing, etc., while affording a look at impressive mechanized assembly lines that channel endless rivers of freshly filled cans and packed cardboard cases in perfect perpetual motion. It wasn't easy to detach my son's nose from the observation window, but over the clack of the machinery, Daddy discerned the siren song of the samples that await responsible drinkers of legal age at the end of the tour.

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As I sipped a cold glass of Coors and my son a soda, we surveyed our surroundings: an ersatz pub, decorated with old advertisements—including one featuring E.T. (left), that lovable extraterrestrial, imploring imbibers to "phone home" for a ride should they overindulge. This seemingly harmless poster, unfortunately, made by far the largest impression of the day on my son. What is that thing? Is it coming to get me? What part of me do you think it would eat first? Years later, the poor lad is still uncommonly concerned with the perceived dangers posed by aliens, even smiling ones in bartenders' aprons.

Then again, if that keeps him out of the taverns for a few extra years, maybe it's not all bad. —Kendall Hamilton

8. Golden Flake

Birmingham, Alabama: 45 minutes; free

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When my wife and I moved from New York City to Birmingham, Alabama, five years ago, I'd braced myself for culture shock. I knew as much about college football and black-eyed peas as I do thermonuclear fusion. But while I'm still rusty on the vagaries of the wishbone formation, we definitely came out ahead. We've got a yard now, and a dog, and some savings. And we live ten minutes from a snack-food factory.

Since 1923, Golden Flake, "The South's Original Potato Chip," has been supplying chips and puffs and curls and popcorn and pork skins from Florida up through Virginia, in flavors as unlikely as Tangy Pickle BBQ and just plain Hot. It is tiny next to the Utzes and Pringles of the world, and touring its 700-employee Birmingham facility can feel like visiting a friend's home-brewing shed, if instead of beer he churned out Chili Lime Pork Cracklin Super Strips.

"This is our cheese puff, corn puff, and popcorn department," said both our guide and, I hope, whoever greets me in the afterlife. There are 14-foot drums of vegetable oil and giant rotating seasoning cylinders and kind-looking ladies slicing potatoes in half (by hand, for quality control). The highlight comes at the halfway point: a basket brimming with potato chips plucked fresh off the conveyor belt, intercepted between fryer and bagging station, and offered to you for sampling. It is the perfect bite of a perfect chip. Thin but still crunchy, with just-too-much salt. Whatever's in your pantry seems like wafer-shaped Styrofoam in comparison.

It's just one of several snack breaks on the tour. If your taste buds still want more—and they will—you get a few complimentary bags to take home. Lucky for me, I was already there.—Brian Barrett

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9. Boeing

Everett, Washington: 90 minutes; $20 (adults), $14 (age 15 and under)

When you're stuck in the middle seat and the baby behind you is wailing, it's easy to forget what a miracle an airplane is. You won't after visiting Boeing—the largest building in the world, big enough to fit Disneyland with 13 acres to spare—and witnessing 30,000 employees assemble millions of parts and miles of wiring into 747s and other jumbo jets.

10. Chevrolet Corvette

Bowling Green, Kentucky: One hour; $10 (adults), $5 (ages 10 to 16)

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So you're buying a Corvette Z06. First off, congratulations. A supercar. You're a lucky man. But why stop there? For an extra five grand you can hop on the assembly line at the Bowling Green factory and help build your 650-hp engine, which gets emblazoned with a plaque commemorating the experience. For those on a budget, $10 gets you the standard factory tour—still thrilling, just no keys at the end.

11. Harley-Davidson

York, Pennsylvania: Two hours; free or $35

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There's a free tour, but it keeps you on the periphery of the shop. Pay the $35 for the Steel Toe Tour and you get to walk up and down the aisles, right next to the workers as bike parts are delivered to them, on-demand, by a trolley that follows magnetic tracks in the floor. At the end, the guys put each finished Harley on a dyno machine and steadily bring it up to 77 mph, running the bike through all the gears.

12. Fender Guitars

The first time I saw a Fender Telecaster up close was in 1979 on the stage of the Hollywood Palladium. I was 14, and Joe Strummer was next to me pounding out the chords to The Clash's "White Riot"—the two of us shouting the lyrics along with a few other teenage punks who had also scrambled onstage during the encore.

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Strummer was thousands of miles from his London home that night. But his battered axe? That wondrous machine had been born less than an hour south, in Fullerton, California, where in the early 1950s self-described tinkerer Leo Fender revolutionized the electric guitar. Since that encounter with Strummer, I've seen hundreds of other Fenders—as a music journalist as well as in my short time as a drummer, which included a stint with punk legends Bad Religion. But I didn't fully appreciate their magic until I strapped on a pair of Devo-like safety goggles and took my first tour of the Fender Factory.

It all starts with unremarkable blocks of alder and ash. From this wood, about 400 employees—more than a few aging longhairs among them—shape, sand, seal, and paint the classic Telecaster and more angular Stratocaster bodies. They then fit the necks, attach the wound pickups, and connect the knobs. Finally, each instrument is plugged in to a row of new Fender amps to check the sound quality.

In the summer, crowds for the twice-daily tour average 50 people. On the April morning I visited, there were only six of us, including two middle-aged Swedes. Afterward, browsing a showroom filled with memorabilia of Fender-playing guitar gods, I asked the guys what made them travel all this way. One clearly didn't understand En glish. The other only a little. He smiled, pointed to a poster of Jimi Hendrix, and simply said, "Him." Returning the gesture, I pointed across the room, to a display about punk. The centerpiece: a replica of Strummer's banged-up Telecaster. —John Albert

13. Lodge Cast Iron Manufacturing

South Pittsburg, Tennessee: Last weekend in April, 45 minutes; free

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You can't get in while the factory is running—it's way too dangerous—but once a year (during April's National Cornbread Festival, naturally) Lodge opens its doors to tourists. Hard to say what's more amazing: the electromagnet that can lift five tons, the furnace that burns at 2,800 degrees Fahrenheit, or the pouring machine that uses ancient sand-molding techniques to create as many as 8,000 skillets an hour.

14. Wood -Mizer

Batesville, Indiana: 30 minutes; free

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I live in rural Indiana, in the north part of a farm county. Out here, the sight of a Wood-Mizer, the industrious portable saw mill, passing by behind a pickup or being towed up onto someone's acreage for a few days of transformative deep-woods lumber milling, is a moment of awe, rare and powerful, like catching sight of a panther or something. In the right conditions, three men and a Wood-Mizer can mill enough lumber to build an entire pole barn or a fishing cabin in just a day. It is a tool of thrift, profit, and creativity. I don't own one—I'm just another fanboy—but I do have a hat. And the logo alone gets me silent nods of respect from farmers who otherwise want nothing to do with me.

I bought the hat after going on the Wood-Mizer factory tour in Batesville, Indiana. (It was cheaper than the sawmill.) The six-month-old plant churns calmly forward, the assembly line formed in the shape of a U. There's no shouting. No rushing. No alarm registered along any of the snug, worker-designed assembly. There's notable focus in the workforce—risen from pride, taken from ownership (the 34-year-old company is entirely worker owned)—that permeates the movement and pace from loading dock to shipping dock. For me, the moment I recognized the familiar machine occurred right in the turn of that U, after the powdered orange paint was kiln-dried onto the steel frame. Then the wheels were attached and the custom motor mounted.

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And then I couldn't help myself. "There's the big cat," I exclaimed, like some kid seeing a ballplayer parking his car. The guy on the line heard me. "You gonna build something?" he asked, assuming I was a buyer. I smiled and pointed to my factory-supplied earplugs. "I'm just on a tour," I said, but he couldn't hear me. "Build something great," he said. He was standing over a new Wood-Mizer, so it sounded like a promise. —Tom Chiarella

15. Nokona

Nocona, Texas: One hour; $5

When Hall of Fame pitcher Nolan Ryan was seven, his father took him to a hardware store in downtown Alvin, Texas, to buy his first baseball mitt. It was a Nokona. Since 1934, the family-owned company has made gloves the same way: hand-lacing and stitching American rawhide, then beating it to hell with a mallet until the pocket is ready to snag a one-hop grounder.

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16. Jelly Belly

Fairfield, California: 40 to 60 minutes; free for the self-guided tour, $47 for a guided tour that takes you on the factory floor

The thousands of jelly beans tumbling in hoppers may sound like bingo balls, only here every one drawn out is a guaranteed winner—except maybe the buttered popcorn. You can taste them at every stage of the tour, but save your appetite. The factory store at the end offers unlimited samples. If you paid for the guided tour, called Jelly Belly University, this is where you make up for your tuition.

17. Tabasco Pepper Sauce

Avery Island, Louisiana: One hour; $5.50

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When I was growing up in the Cajun Triangle, any time a relative or college friend came to town, my family trotted out one of three old chestnuts: tours of swamps, plantations, or the Tabasco factory. I always hoped for the peppers—because I am afraid of alligators and ghost stories but mainly because, like all good Louisianans, I am obsessed with hot sauce.

Avery Island is only three miles wide, so most of the growing happens in South America. But this is where the rust-colored mash is packed into old bourbon barrels—about 50,000 are stacked in the warehouse—and left to ferment for three years. When ready, it is mixed with vinegar and aged for another month. Finally, the sauce gets bottled and shipped off to 180 countries.

The smells of the tour are as good as the sights—all that spice mixing with nearby forests of azalea trees. But the best part comes afterward, at the free tasting, when someone inevitably volunteers to try the inferno-level habanero sauce. That someone will always be me. —Katie Macdonald

18. Kenyon's Grist Mill

West Kingston, Rhode Island: July 23 to 24 and October 22 to 23; free

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Two giant slabs of granite—each more than 150 years old and weighing more than 2,000 pounds apiece—pulverize whole grain and corn into meal and flour. That's it. A simple, centuries-old process that retains all the nutrients of the original grains and corn. Make sure to bring home some Johnny Cake mix.

19. Kohler

Kohler, Wisconsin: Three hours; free

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Lowell Kappers, the 80-year-old former Kohler employee who led our tour, worked at the Wisconsin factory, north of Milwaukee, for 44 years—31 of them as a cast-iron grinder. Three decades machining crankshafts and rail-track components. Three decades wearing a respirator helmet to keep pulverized iron dust out of his lungs. He retired in 1999 but still shows up two or three mornings a week to give tours. The factory has been offering them since 1926, a couple of decades before Kappers's dad started working there.

The tour is epic: four buildings, three hours, two and a half miles. You sidestep moving forklifts. You cross beneath conveyors shuttling tubs. You watch molten iron flow. In a cavernous brick loft called the pottery, liquid clay pumped from basement tanks filled plaster-of-paris molds before getting glazed and fired in 2,450-degree industrial kilns. In the enameling shop, an employee in a silver heat shield coated a cast-iron shower floor in enamel powder, then slid it into the orange maw of another kiln.

There are so many kilns. But Kappers didn't break a sweat, despite the heat and constant walking. The only time he really lingered was when we got to the aisle where he had worked, the spot where he jockeyed that heavy grinding wheel all those years.

"Noisiest place in the factory," he said. He wasn't complaining. He was proud. And then he was off again. —Phil Hanrahan

20. R.L. Winston Rod Company

Twin Bridges, Montana: 45 minutes; free

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I learned to fly-fish on a fiberglass five-weight that my dad bought at Abercrombie & Fitch in the '60s. With his tongue sticking out in a pose of concentration, he showed me the basic ten and two. Wait for the glass to finish its slow backward flex, wait for the line to unfurl, then launch your forearm forward. Be patient, son.

This was the early '90s. By then, Dad's A&F beauty was a relic. Space-age graphite had made fiberglass obsolete. Trouble was, graphite is much stiffer than glass. Graphite rods cast like rocket launchers, and spooky trout require a delicate approach. Based in Twin Bridges, Montana, at the confluence of three legendary trout rivers, 87-year-old R.L. Winston Rod Company has figured out an alchemy that transforms graphite into velvet. The key ingredient is its staff of 40—roughly 10 percent of the population of Twin Bridges. They secure line guides with hand-wrapped thread. They balance rods by feel and sight alone. They hand-fit the ferrules connecting the rod sections to within one thirty-second of an inch. When customers send in broken rods for repair, Winston rebuilds the damaged segments from scratch.

This tireless, meticulous labor accounts for the cost of the rods: ranging from $500 to $3,000. That might sound pricey, especially when a perfectly serviceable rod will run you about $200. But near the end of the tour, I was frantically crunching numbers in my head, trying to figure out how many meals I could skip in the coming month. Fortunately, the gift shop sells only hats and sweatshirts. —Elliott Woods

21. Filson

Seattle, Washington: 30 to 40 minutes; free

One look at the sewing floor and it's easy to see how the garment and bag company that C.C. Filson started in 1897 to outfit Gold Rush prospectors has continued to thrive. Veteran employees, some who've been there 30 years, operate antique treadle machines customized to work with the brand's hallmark rugged twill.

*This article origionally appeared in the July/August 2016 issue of Popular Mechanics.

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